


The Undead M.E

by manypastfrustrations



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Conspiracy Theories, F/F, Including lots of paperwork, Lesbian Relationship, Vampires, no editing we die like men, police work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 15:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14115282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manypastfrustrations/pseuds/manypastfrustrations
Summary: A kind-of sequel to my story 'Henry Claus is Comin' to Town', focusing on Officer Olive Charles who was a throwaway character in that story. Not really necessary to have read that first, as it is recapped in the first chapter.This time, Olive is determined to unravel the secret of Dr Henry Morgan, but ends up with the wrong end of the stick.





	The Undead M.E

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this story is mostly about an OC, Olive Charles (the initials are a coincidence), and how her daily life interacts with those of the original Forever characters. So our favourite characters are mostly in the background of this fic. If that's not your sort of thing, you can read something else, no hard feelings. If that is your sort of thing, welcome! Enjoy

“Would someone like to explain what the _hell_ is going on here?”

All eyes in the room swivelled to look at Lieutenant Reece, who was standing in the doorway with an exasperated expression as she took in the scene before her.

Closest to the door stood Jo Martinez, holding a scarf in one hand, which was outstretched towards Henry Morgan as though trying to pull him backwards. Henry was twisted away from Jo, half-facing a group of three junior police officers.

The strangest thing about the scene, though, was the behaviour of the uniformed officers. They were standing in a triangle formation, with the front one – a woman – holding a crude wooden crucifix. Flanking her on her left was another woman, holding what appeared to be a wooden table leg, with one end sharpened into a point. On the other side was a young, scared-looking man, holding a small bottle with a clear liquid inside.

The five people remained frozen in place for a couple of seconds, staring at Lieutenant Reece. Eventually, Henry straightened up and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, Lieutenant,” he said in a weary tone, “that it’s rather a long story.”

* * *

 The story began six weeks, five days, and fourteen hours earlier, when Police Officer Olive Charles had surprised a late-night intruder in the Homicide department of the police precinct. Or rather, there had been two intruders – Santa Claus, and one of his elves.

Later, Olive had told herself that she had realised immediately that the man she had seen was not really Father Christmas. That although she had once believed in a burly man who could deliver presents to billions of children in a single night, she had long since known that he was not, in fact, real. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, as it had allowed Olive to convince herself that she was a sensible sort of person.

In truth, due to the late hour and the other things on her mind, it had taken around seven hours for Olive to be certain that she had not seen Santa Claus in her police precinct, but rather a kind-hearted detective who had decided to surprise his colleagues with anonymous Christmas presents. At least, Olive was pretty sure he was a detective. She had since seen him around the Homicide department occasionally, talking with the other detectives. Olive still didn't know the man’s name, a situation she decided to rectify three weeks, two days, and four hours after she had first realised who he was.

Olive was walking along the corridor towards the Homicide department when she noticed a person walking in front of her, several yards ahead. It took Olive a moment, but she soon recognised the scarf and the tailored suit jacket – it was her mysterious man, the kind-hearted detective. With a small smile, Olive watched him go through the double doors into the Homicide department, speeding up her pace just a little. When she arrived in the department, the man was talking with two detectives, one woman – Jo? Joan? Olive couldn’t remember– and a man whose name nobody knew.

Olive turned her attention to her friend, Detective Annie Bell, who sat just inside the door. “I brought the files you wanted,” she said, holding up the manila folder. “One criminal record, and one evidence release form.”

“Thank you,” Annie said gratefully, taking the files and laying them out on her desk. “Say, how’re you doing?”

“Fine, thanks,” Olive said distractedly. “And you?”

“I’m okay, except it’s a bit stressful at the moment. Lydia’s getting engaged, and Susan won’t stop getting into fights at school…”

Olive was only half-listening, keeping one eye on the man who was now standing by the whiteboard, staring intently at a photograph from a crime scene. Taking a deep breath, Olive summoned all the knowledge from her training in order to broach the subject subtly, without being too obvious.

“Who’s that guy?”

Annie cut herself off mid-sentence, and followed Olive’s pointed finger. She quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t think he was your type.”

“He’s not,” Olive said quickly. “I just…I’ve seen him around, and wondered who he was, that’s all. He’s British,” she finished lamely.

Annie snorted. “Well observed,” she said lightly. “That man is Doctor Henry Morgan.”

“Doctor?”

“He’s an M.E,” she explained. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of him, he’s sort of infamous in this precinct.”

“Perhaps it’s just in this department,” Olive said.

“Perhaps,” Annie said. She shook her head, and turned away from Henry. “At any rate, I’m not too fond of him.”

“Oh?” Olive asked casually.

“He’s a bit…” It took Annie a moment to find the word. “He’s a bit creepy, to be honest. He hides himself away down in the morgue all day, first to arrive and last to leave. Plus, he has this habit of creeping up behind people, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Olive said, filing that information away for future use.

“Not to mention his whole death shtick.”

That got Olive’s attention. “Death?”

“Yeah. I know he’s an M.E and all, but still…like, they say that he can look at a crime scene and instantly know how the person was killed, without even having to do an autopsy. He knows about weird poisons and stuff no one’s heard of – he’s like an encyclopaedia about death!” Annie gave a small shudder, then glanced up at Olive. “It’s probably nothing,” she said. “Thanks for the files, at any rate.”

“It’s fine,” Olive told her honestly. “Happy to help. I should get back, though.”

Annie smiled. “See you later.”

“See ya,” Olive said, walking out the door with her head buzzing. Her instinct had been right – there was definitely something strange about that man, and it wasn’t just that he liked to dress up as Santa Claus and give his colleagues presents in the dead of night. No, there was something else about Doctor Morgan, and Olive was determined to find out what that was.

* * *

 

It was three days later that Olive next mentioned Henry Morgan. She was standing around the coffee machine in the cafeteria with three or four other officers, all enjoying a well-earned break after a morning of running around in the rain catching criminals. Although admittedly, nobody had caught anyone today; they had been waiting in the wings as part of a raid on a suspected drug house, which had turned out to be a flat full of sober theatre students. Nonetheless, the police officers had been crouched in the rain for several hours, and were now enjoying their coffee in silence.

That is, until Olive spoke. “Have any of you guys worked with the Homicide department?”

There were a few moments of silence, then a new guy said, “Yeah. Why?” Olive thought his name was Chris, although she wasn’t certain.

“No reason,” she said, and took a drink of her coffee. “It’s just,” she added casually, “I was wondering about that M.E that sometimes works with them.”

A woman spoke up. “Who, Doctor Morgan?” This woman had recently moved from another precinct, and Olive didn’t know her name, but she wished she did. She had curly brown hair, and eyes that matched, and a nose that, although red from the cold, was still small and cute…

 _Okay, Olive, stay on track_ , she reminded herself. Out loud, she said, “I think that’s his name, yeah.”

The other woman shrugged. “What about him?”

“He just seems a bit…strange, that’s all,” Olive said. “Do you get that feeling?”

“A bit,” the other woman said. “He’s British, after all. Plus, he dresses like he’s from a different century.”

“Being shut up with dead people all day is bound to make anyone a bit strange, though, wouldn’t it?” another guy, Gary, piped up.

“Having a different scarf for every day of the week is overdoing it a bit,” Maybe-Chris said, and downed the rest of his drink. “Right, I’m off,” he said, putting the cup in the sink and walking to the door. “Don’t take too long, guys,” he added, “the Lieu is on our backs for taking long breaks, remember?”

Gary made his excuses and left also, leaving Olive and the other woman alone together. “We shouldn’t take too long,” she agreed, downing her drink also and starting to walk towards the door.

“Uh, wait,” Olive blurted out before the other woman could reach the door. She hesitated, hand hovering over the door handle, and quirked an eyebrow towards Olive.

“Uh,” Olive said, all other words having vanished from her mind. A question suddenly came to her, and she grabbed it out of the air and said it aloud. “What’s your name?”

The other woman smiled, an action which made her nose crinkle slightly. “Sarah,” she said. “Sarah Burns.”

“I’m Olive Charles,” she introduced herself.

“Olive,” Sarah repeated, trying the name out on her tongue. “I like olives. Well, it was nice to meet you.” She turned towards the door, then abruptly back towards Olive. “Hey, would you like to meet up after work tonight?” she asked. “We can talk about Henry Morgan, if you want. Or…other things.”

Olive licked her lips. “Uh,” she said again, trying to remember how to form words of more than one syllable, “sure.”

“Great,” Sarah beamed. “Would six o’clock suit you? By the main doors?”

Olive mustered a smile. “See you there.”

“See you,” and then Sarah was gone, the door closing slowly behind her.

Olive let out a breath slowly, leaning back against the counter and processing what had just happened. She stayed standing there for at least a minute, the coffee growing cold in her hand, until the door opened again and two officers came in, chatting to one another and jerking Olive out of her reverie. She blinked, then looked at her watch, realising that she was late. This time, exactly the right word came to mind, and she muttered it under her breath as she poured the rest of her drink down the sink and hurried off, hoping she wouldn’t get chewed out by her boss for being late back from break.

There was no such luck.

* * *

 “So he’s, what, obsessed with death?”

Olive shrugged. “Seems so,” she said. “I’ve heard of people getting attached to their jobs, but knowing details about murders more than a hundred years ago? That’s just plain disturbing.”

They were in a bar a few blocks away from the precinct. Being early in the evening, it was relatively early; and Sarah and Olive had a table to themselves in a corner, away from the other patrons. Sarah was leaning forward on her elbows, nodding along with Olive’s words. “It is weird,” she agreed. “Plus, he talks kinda funny, have you noticed?”

“He’s British,” Olive said, and Sarah nodded sagely, as though that explained it.

“I worked with a British lady at my last precinct,” she said. “She had this really strong Scottish accent. It was like listening to another language, you had to translate it to English in your head before replying.”

“Did she dress all old-fashioned as well?”

“Not really. She mostly wore jeans, out of work.”

“Doctor Morgan always has a scarf on,” Olive said, “and he-”

She cut herself off when Sarah reached over and placed her hand on top of Olive’s. She smiled. “We don’t only have to talk about Doctor Morgan,” she said. “What about you? Hopes, dreams?”

Olive looked up from their joined hands. “Well, I want to be a detective,” she said, “but everyone seems to want that. When I was little, I wanted to become a writer.” She paused. “And when I was older. I was always writing as a teenager.”

“But you didn’t pursue writing.” It wasn’t a question, but Sarah let the statement dangle between them.

Olive shrugged. “It wasn’t financially viable. Besides, my uncle was a detective. I figured it was as good a path as any.”

Sarah smiled sadly. “I did that as well. It was my mum who was a police officer, and I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so I joined the Force.”

Olive frowned. “Really? Nothing you wanted to do?”

Sarah shook her head. She pulled her hand back and folded her arms on the table. “Not everyone is ambitious like you. Some people just wake up one day and find that they’re on a career path, without really planning it at all.”

Olive pursed her lips. She didn’t want to criticise Sarah’s entire life, but there was something about that statement that didn’t make sense to her. Instead, she said, “So, that Scottish lady you used to work with. What was she like?”

“She was nice,” Sarah said. “Georgia, she was called. We dated for a while,” she added.

Olive’s heart stuttered for a moment at the casual acknowledgement that Sarah had dated a woman. “Oh,” was all she said.

Sarah glanced up, watching Olive’s expression closely. “How about you,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Not at the moment.” A pause, then, “My last girlfriend moved to Montana with the woman who she was cheating on me with.”

Sarah looked sympathetic. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

She reached her hand across the table again, and this time Olive took hold of it.


End file.
